Love me, Love my navel

Have you ever noticed how the recesses of the navel sort of resemble the folds of the brain, minus the lint, or not... Or maybe lint is an appropriate metaphor for all of the ridiculous clutter that intrudes on my deep thoughts, for example, I may be in profound contemplation of a question that has serious anthro-economic-historical connations, and somehow my brain will skid on some lint and suddenly I'll be giving money to the oddsmakers on the name of the SpearsFederletus spawn, I'm voting for Rita-Lay Kabalala, and a beat or two will pass and my selves will shrug and my inner Nelson will cackle ha-ha.

Yeah, I know you know what I'm talking about, and that serious question, the one, that answer that surely merits a nobel laureate dissapates steeped in nicotine exhalation and plonk, and back to the navel board we go. Fluke, coincidence, that brass ring.

In other words, it's a lot like writing, this whole living thing, but less stationary, which begs the question, can one not lead a happy life in the confines of one's own heavy head. Need one venture out? Can't one be the persuasive hero, she of the cool hand and level head. Can't you live a perfectly cinema worthy fraught romance, complete with epic fights and reconciliations, but minus the missed communications as you and your head understand each othe completely, so instead you spend a lot of aimless time making out in exotic locals. And money simply isn't an issue in your head, one of those abstract notions foisted upon us by the logicians of the world, happily they are not in my head, everyone in Marc Jacobs and that person with the cool name that sounds like Proenza Schulersomethingsomething, but it matters not, as everyone is lovely and strong and eats like horses, and drinks nectar straight from the vat, and no one is ever sated and not satisfied, and the weather is always obliging save the occaisional thunderstorm. I mean Proust did it, confined and phelgmatic, a whole life inspired by a fucking biscuit, or morsel of cake depending on the translation.

Back to my navel and unrepentent self-absorbtion, the navel that is currently, to my endless distaste, surfing the paunch of my belly. The navel that has a hole in it thanks to the caprice of my nineteen year old self and a really big needle. Much like my back, patches of which I willed to be inked, and so they were and so they are, but when you are seventeen years old and with reckless lack of foresight your flesh is but a canvas for tawdry rebellion and sunblock but a ruse for suckers and you have a secret longing for durability, so what better thought than to ink it permanently onto your skin...

That said, I've got one tatoo that I adore, and one I'd like to be rid of, and I would like to thank a certain Phil I know for talking me out of getting a tatoo when I was schlitzed on cheap tequila and my former spouse was egging me on in fucking Cancun, because of all the tatoos of dubious provenance, Cancun seconds only Tejuana. Year after year some pathetic sorority girl is going to wake up face down in a shitty "resort" with a tatoo of Senior Frog's on her ass, and have to explain it away to her future spouse...

Again with the digressions.

So anyway back to my fascinating navel....

I would like to thank the commenters, the eminent MM, my bro, Shiv, thank you for indulging my shameless fishing... And I think that you should all insist that frere Emma start his own blog, he might be a lesser bloviator than his sister, but he has a tale or two to tell.